Dead Man's Bones
by Petronille
Summary: Starts out from Episode 5 of Season 1. As the hunt for the Chesapeake Ripper heats up again, Jack Crawford adds archivist Caitlin Greer (OC) to the team not for her research skills, but for a different ability altogether. And when Hannibal Lecter discovers the truth, he will do everything he can to protect his secrets. Inspired by the Someone Save Will Graham meme.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Hannibal, _but all original characters are mine. **

**This is a rewrite of something that I wasn't happy with. Hopefully this time it will turn out better. It will eventually cross over with ITV's _Whitechapel. _This fic begins with Episode 5 of Season 1 and will go from there.**

**I've "cast" Felicity Jones as Caitlin Greer. This was originally inspired by the Someone Save Will Graham meme. Caitlin is not a love interest for either Will or Hannibal.**

**There is a playlist for this, and I'll post some of the songs now and then.**

Songs from the playlist:

_Intro_, Dead Man's Bones (they're a band, and I borrowed their name for the title)

_Tonight, Tonight, _Smashing Pumpkins

_Hotel California, _The Killers

_The Mummers' Dance,_ Loreena McKennitt

_42, _Coldplay

_Play On, _Paloma Faith

_Dead Hearts, _Stars

_The Lighthouse, _The Hush Sound

_Cemetaries of London,_Coldplay

_The Police and the Private,_ Metric

_La Petite Mort,_ Coeur de Pirate

_A Handsome Stranger Called Death, _FOE

_Skin, _Zola Jesus

_Another Girl's Paradise,_ Tori Amos

_Blinding, _Florence + the Machine

_Games People Play, _Lissie

_I'm Not Calling You a Liar_, Florence + the Machine

_Burn, _The Cure

The Pale Woman

I spoke to the pale and heavy-lidded woman, and said:  
O pale and heavy-lidded woman, why is your cheek  
Pale as the dead, and what are your eyes afraid lest they speak?  
And the woman answered me: I am pale as the dead,  
For the dead have loved me, and I dream of the dead.

But I see in the eyes of the living, as a living fire,  
The thing that my soul in triumph tells me I have forgot;  
And therefore mine eyelids are heavy, and I raise them not,  
For always I see in the eyes of men the old desire,  
And I fear lest they see that I desire their desire.

-Arthur Symons

**Dead Man's Bones**

**Chapter One**

"What does she do again?" Will Graham asked Jack Crawford as they made their way down the quiet hallway.

Jack glanced at him with an impassive smile on his face. "In terms of what—her 'super power' or what she does for a living?"

"What she does for a living. Why is she here?"

"She's building an archive," Jack explained succinctly. "She's a researcher and an archivist."

"I know about the murder archive," Will said impatiently. "Another addition to your Evil Minds Museum, right?"

Jack pointedly ignored the surliness in Will's tone, which rankled Will a little bit. ack stopped midstride, turning to Will. "You're familiar with some of the crimes the police in London have been dealing with, haven't you? The copycat murders?"

"The Jack the Ripper copycat in 2008?"

"_And_ the Ratliff Highway murder and Thames torso murder copycats from 2011."

"So there are a few killers lacking in originality. What does that have to do with us?" Will demanded.

"Hannibal Lecter consulted in the Thames torso copycat case." Jack continued down the hallway. "He remarked on the murder archive some consultant—a Ripperologist—had started at Scotland Yard. I thought we should have the same thing here at the BAU. So we stole one of the archivists working with our old files at the National Archives..."

"Who has a super power," Will added ironically.

"You're just nervous she might make you obsolete."

"I would be exhilarated if she made me obsolete. Can she handle the things I see? Or will her thinking shut down, too?"

"She's not a profiler, Will," Jack reminded him.

"Whatever else she does, then. Is that going to render me obsolete and get me back to the classroom?"

"Will, you'll never be obsolete to me." Jack's tone was gently mocking, though his face was serious. "Let's just say you'll be able to combine notes with her. You'll complement each other, like peas and carrots."

"I'm not Forrest Gump, Jack. So really, stupid is as stupid does."

Jack laughed. "Well, it's nice to know you're on your best behavior today, Will. She'll be thrilled to be working with you."

"She'll be thrilled for both of us, I'm sure."

"You'll like Caitlin. Trust me on this."

"I'll keep an open mind," Will promised, though he wasn't sure that he could keep it as they stepped into the cool, temperature-controlled room that Jack had commandeered for the archive. It was quiet here, blissfully quiet except for the faint sound of shuffling papers and the creak of someone stepping onto one of those stepstools used in libraries. Jack led Will to the back of the room and behind a shelf. The woman seated on the stepstool had her Ipod earbuds in her ears and was absorbed in reading a file.

"Caitlin," Jack said loudly, and the woman started with a gasp, almost dropping the file. She stood up, pulling the earbuds from her ears and setting the file folder aside.

"Jack." She took her Ipod Touch out of the pocket of her cardigan and turned it off, then disconnected the earbuds from it, dropping them both back into the pocket. "You're early," she remarked as she surveyed Will casually. And then she seemed to be looking at something beyond him. She blinked twice, a puzzled look crossing her face before she collected herself. "All thr—er, the both of you."

She'd looked beyond him. Had she tried to avoid eye contact just as he was doing?

"Will has a class in about half an hour. We got out of our meeting early and decided to come down here. Will Graham, this is Caitlin Greer. She's putting together the BAU murder archive."

She stepped forward, smiling, extending her hand. She was trying to made eye contact now. "It's nice to finally meet you," she said. "Jack has told me about what you can do...how you use your ability to empathize to profile killers. It's nothing short of amazing."

Will shook her hand briefly. "So you haven't read what Freddie Lounds has written about me, then?"

She chuckled. "What Freddie Lounds writes is comparable to the crime journals of the Victorian era. Actually, those are a few steps up."

So Caitlin Greer didn't have a very high opinion of Freddie Lounds, either.

"I thought you two would bond over a mutual hatred of Freddie Lounds," Jack said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"But is she as bad as Dr. Bloom says she is, Jack?" Caitlin said, her elfin face alight with amusement. "Is she really the worst?"

"I think everyone has a different opinion on that," Jack replied, glancing over at Will. "But Will here thinks she's what you'd call the worst."

Dr. Bloom. How did she know Alana?

"Let's give Will a look at this archive," Jack suggested, gesturing that Caitlin should lead. The young woman's hazel eyes lit up excitedly, and she led both Will and Jack to the shelves that looked like they had been finished.

"This is all British murders. All of the files here are copied straight from the murder archive located at the Metropolitan Police headquarters in London. They've been categorized according to how Edward Buchan has it organized there." She turned to Will. "I just finished Japanese and I'm now on American. Once this is finished, the entire BAU will have access to it for reference. Jack has asked me to stay behind and run it. I'd maintain it and coodinate access to the files. The eventual goal is to get everything electronically archived. So say you're in Florida to help out with a case and you need to take a look at a certain file, you'll be able to access it from the local FBI headquarters." She cast a weary glance at the rest of the files. "Eventually."

"But we already have archives of our old cases," Will told her. "Don't those make _your_ archive a little redundant?"

"Not really. London Metropolitan Police has all kinds of archives, but this is more of a _specific_ archive. This was designed by a crime historian. So you're not only getting police information, but contemporaneous information from newspapers and other media." Caitlin reached into the side pocket of her oversized black cardigan and produced a tube of tinted lip balm and reapplied it to her lips.

She reminded him of Rachel Weisz's character in _The Mummy.._ He could only imagine her coming with them to investigate cases, and when asked by local police what she did, she would say, "I'm an archivist!" with the same amount of pride that Rachel Weisz had told Brenda Fraser that she was a librarian.

"It's basically a special collection," Jack explained to Will. "Meant only for the BAU. It's just another perspective, like what you do is another perspective. Hannibal Lecter saw this when he was in London and mentioned it to Alana Bloom because he was so impressed with it. I'd read about it and decided to make it happen just before we pulled you from the classroom."

"Yeah. What Jack said." She screwed the cap back onto the tinted lip balm and put it back into her pocket. How much crap did she carry in her pockets? "My office is right here. It's not big and swanky like Jack's, but I have an electric tea kettle if you're ever in the mood for a cuppa." She clapped her hand over her mouth, suppressing a laugh. "I mean, cup of tea. My dad's British, and sometimes I forget _not _to say things in the way he would..."

Her office was about the size of his, maybe a little smaller, but with more shelf space, and she had made use of all of it, with some books related to her field on some of them and of course Dale Carnegie's _How to Win Friends and Influence People_. But the oddest, of course, were the books beside her desk, the ones on what seemed to be Victorian crime, and one book on William James's investigations into spiritualism. Two on Jack the Ripper, one called _London's Shadows._ Then there were the pictures of family and friends, things everyone else but himself—and Hannibal Lecter—had in their offices. A framed print of a film poster from _Way Down East _hung on one wall, while one of Vincent van Gogh's _Starry Night _hung on the other. There was a printed picture of Grumpy Cat from the computer pinned into the corkboard by the door.

And of course there was the shiny, chrome-colored electric tea kettle.

It certainly looked like a librarian's office.

At the FBI.

In the BAU of all places.

"Do you want some tea? I have double bergamot Earl Grey or ginger green tea or..." She stopped all of a sudden, straightening slowly, as though she were listening to someone speaking urgently. Her brow wrinkled, and she bit her lips as though she wanted to say something but dared not to when other people were present.

"Caitlin? Everything okay?" Jack asked, touching her on the shoulder gently. She whirled to face Jack, a visible expression of agitation on her face. She looked as though she was about to cry.

"Yeah, Jack. I'm fine. I'm just..." Her voice trailed off. She wiped at her eyes, and then Jack's phone ringer went off.

"I need to take this," Jack told Will and Caitlin. "Excuse me." Jack made his way out of the tiny office, leaving Will alone with Caitlin.

This left Will at a loss. He wanted to just leave, to go back to his lecture hall, shuffle some papers around, talk at his students for a few hours, and then be left in peace.

But he knew that he couldn't _just leave_. He'd have to face Caitlin Greer after that, and he didn't really want to start off on the wrong foot with her. He picked up the electric tea kettle.

"I've got to leave in a few minutes, but if you want some tea I can at least heat the water for you. We'll have to have that cuppa some other time."

Will glanced at Caitlin, who seemed to be staring not at him, but _beyond_ him, and she tossed her head, blinked, and then looked at him apologetically.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I don't know what came over me. Sometimes I...Well, you probably have moments like that, too."

"Sometimes," he admitted with a grimace. He went into the nearest kitchen for some water, then returned to Caitlin's office, where she now sat in her desk chair, her face pale.

"Here," she said, getting up after watching him struggle with turning on the electric tea kettle. "I'll do it. You don't need to. I'll show you how another time."

"You're okay, though?"

"I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Positive." She stepped away from him, crossing her arms across her chest. She regarded him oddly, tilting her head to the side, almost seeming to deliberate as to whether or not she should say something more to him.

"An albatross," she said. "You've got an albatross around your neck, like the ancient mariner."

"Excuse me?" Will said, taken aback.

"You know—an albatross. In _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,_ the mariner killed the albatross, which his crew believed to be a sign of good luck, and the rest of the crew was so pissed at him that they made him wear it around his neck." She toyed with the dainty amber pendant around her neck.

"I know about _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_," Will said, retreating back into the defenses he had built for himself once again. "But why are you telling me I've got an albatross around my neck?"

She sighed, pressing the heels of her hands to her temples. "It's guilt. You're carrying a lot of guilt with you."

"Guilt?" Will demanded, the edge returning to his voice. "And how'd you figure that out? Are you trying out the great profiling skills you got from being an armchair crime historian on me just to see how they work?"

"_No. _Will, that's not it at all."

"Well, how did you come to that conclusion, then?"

She inhaled deeply, as though she was steeling herself. "Because he's standing right behind you."

"But there's no one..." he began, checking over his shoulder just to make sure he was right. "There's no one there."

He felt a sudden chill breeze, as though someone had walked right past him. But there was no one there.

And then, as though they had been pushed, four or five of Caitlin's books toppled off of the bookshelf and onto the floor. Caitlin gasped. "Oh, fuck, Will, you just pissed him off. You might...Mary! _Mary! That's enough! _You don't need to repeat it...I think he gets it."

"You think _who_ gets it?" Will queried.

"Not _you!_ Mary, knock it off! Just _stop!" _Caitlin pointed at something beside the bookshelf, something Will couldn't see, though the books shuffled across the floor on their own as though some unseen person had kicked at them.

He felt cold. All of the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end.

"Did I just see that? Did those books just move on their own?"

"Not on their own." Caitlin sighed, closing her eyes. "The ghost of Garrett Jacob Hobbs—the albatross around your neck—is the one who moved them."

**All reviews, favorites, and follows will, as always, be greatly appreciated!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Hannibal, _but all original characters are mine. **

**This is a rewrite of something that I wasn't happy with. Hopefully this time it will turn out better. It will eventually cross over with ITV's _Whitechapel. _This fic begins with Episode 5 of Season 1 and will go from there.**

**I've "cast" Felicity Jones as Caitlin Greer. This was originally inspired by the Someone Save Will Graham meme. Caitlin is not a love interest for either Will or Hannibal. But for Joe Chandler of _Whitechapel_? Oh, yes!**

**And does anyone have an idea of the timeline of the first season of the series? It looks like it starts in autumn 2012 and ends with Will's capture and containment in late winter or early spring of 2013. Is anyone else getting this impression as well?**

**Also, updates on this and other stories may be a little sporadic as I'm working on my own stuff right now. If anyone would like to know more, please let me know!**

**Dead Man's Bones**

**Chapter Two**

Caitlin had always been good at faking being normal, at hiding what she called her "thing." But it came easily when her parents and siblings were so supportive of her, when it was known to have been a result of the accident.

Somehow she didn't think it came so easily with Will Graham.

She had almost slipped when she had seen the third man there, but once she had really gotten a look at him, at his eyes, she had realized that Garrett Jacob Hobbs wasn't living.

He was a ghost.

He had stood there, snickering at the things Will Graham was saying, mimicking Will's movements.

And then he had turned to Caitlin as they had stood in her office.

_You can see me. _

_You know you glow like a fucking light show?_

_Ask him how he killed me. Ask him._

Of course that was when Mary Jane Kelly had wandered into the room through the wall.

_What in the hell are you doing here? Get out!_ Mary had railed, straightening to what had been in full height in lifetime, clenching her fists.

_Who are you to tell me that?_ Hobbs folded his arms across his chest, a corner of his lip curling up, his brows raised.

_Does it matter who I am? When I tell you to get out, it means to get out. Now do it, before I put my fist in your eye and my boot up your ass!_

Will Graham's jaw went slack when the books fell off of the shelf as Hobbs has turned to leave.

Will hadn't appreciated her assessment of him, either.

"You're an archivist," he told her levelly. "Not a profiler, not a psychiatrist. You don't have the expertise to psychoanalyze me. And all this stuff about ghosts...where the hell is this coming from?"

Mary Jane let out a laugh. _Ah, so he thinks he's a bright one, doesn't he?_

Caitlin shot her a warning glance, and the ghost sighed wearily and passed beside Will Graham, making him shiver again.

"Was that a ghost?"

"Not your ghost."

"So you have a ghost?" He watched as she picked out some double bergamot Earl Grey tea and placed the bag into her mug.

"In a manner of speaking."

"So who's your ghost?"

"Mary Jane Kelly. The fifth Jack the Ripper victim."

"So how did that happen?"

"I was in London, and some kids were messing around with a Ouija board in front of a warehouse." Caitlin gestured for Will to sit in her desk chair. "My dad is British—an academic...both my parents are—so while he and my mom were off researching at whatever university during the summer my brother and sister and I would stay with my gran in London. I studied abroad at the university one fall and was coming home from the pub with some friends. The kids saw us and took off, but Mary was still there, and I let her follow me home. She was still in her death state. It took six months for her to get out of it."

"So she's followed you like a lost puppy dog ever since?"

"Mary Jane keeps the other ghosts away so I can sleep at night. She acts as a kind of gatekeeper."

"And what do you do for her?" Will asked.

"I've promised to help her find her killer."

Will Graham stared at Caitlin incredulously, his brows raising and a laugh ready to erupt from his mouth. "That's the craziest thing I've ever heard."

"Says the man who can empathize with serial killers." Caitlin poured some tea into her mug.

"How did you deal with it? Seeing her like how the crime scene pictures from the Miller's Court room show?" Will said, pushing the chair back from her desk because it was so high, leaning forward.

Caitlin shrugged. "I just did. It's not like it was her fault. Anyhow, I take something so I can sleep at night. And I have a good therapist."

"Alana Bloom?"

She almost spat out her tea. "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess." He stood up. "Anyway, I hate to cut this short, but I have a class to teach. It was nice meeting you."

"Likewise," she said, smiling as she watched him leave. And Mary Jane watched him leave, too.

* * *

"You met Will?" Alana said as though she were trying to broach the subject carefully. "What did you think about him?"

Caitlin sipped at her coffee as they walked across the Quantico campus. "He's reserved...in a real standoffish way. In an, 'I don't want to talk to anyone—ever' way."

"Did you get along with him okay?"

"He didn't seem to be too receptive of the work I was doing, but then he's a profiler. He's not going to care about the history behind certain things or which adhesive works the best to fix a book binding. In the end, I'm just a librarian to him."

"A librarian who can communicate with the victims from beyond the grave," Alana amended, a smile brightening her face.

"So you believe in psychic phenomena?" Caitlin asked her incredulously, her brows knitting.

"I don't discount it. We only know a little bit about the brain and what it's capable of," Alana reminded Caitlin. "Near-death experiences resulting from lack of oxygen and sudden resuscitation can sometimes have odd effects on the brain, almost like it's been rewired on its own. I think this is what happened with you."

"Have you discussed it with anyone else?"

"Not everyone shares my opinions, so that's why I don't discuss it or you with anyone else. You only wanted Jack and me to know, and that's how it's going to be."

"Will Graham knows now, too."

"Will can keep a secret."

"Can he?"

"You told him about Mary Kelly?"

Caitlin snorted. "There was no choice. Garrett Jacob Hobbs was all up in his shit. Mary Jane got pissed and intervened. Hobbs headed off...for now."

"He mentioned you quoted _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_."

"Not so much quoted as referenced."

"Will isn't stupid, Caitlin."

"Neither am I. But he tends to treat people like they're stupid. But _he_ doesn't like being treated like he's stupid." Caitlin's lips turned down as she sipped at her caramel macchiato once more.

"What does your ghost say?"

"Mary Jane."

"Okay. What does Mary Jane say?"

"She likes him. She called him a bright one."

"What does she think of me?" Alana said curiously.

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"She's grimacing at you right now. But for the most part, she likes you. You're a fighter, a tough one."

"Jack wants you to come with me to Baltimore. Soon."

"Why?"

"To talk to Abigail Hobbs. He's stumped. He thinks you can get something."

"Like talking to ghosties?"

"Yeah, that." Alana stopped walking. "Hannibal Lecter says he wants to help you with your Ripper publication. He wants to take a look at the archive and whatever resources you might have and whatever Edward Buchan gave you."

"It's just a historical book, Alana. I'm not pushing a certain suspect."

"I know you're not. We'll make a day of it. We'll see Abigail and then Hannibal will cook us dinner. His library is amazing, Caitlin; you'll be in there for days."

Oh, this. Alana had been pushing Caitlin to go to Hannibal Lecter for his expertise on forensic psychiatry. And of course there was the archive and his curiosity about it.

"If he wants to see the archive, that's great. Bring him in. I'd also love to see his library sometime." Caitlin threw her empty Starbucks cup into the trash.

"And let him have you for dinner?" Alana prompted. Caitlin couldn't help but laugh at this.

"_And_ let him have me for dinner," Caitlin replied, smiling.

* * *

Late autumns and winters in Virginia were much milder than the Chicago ones Caitlin had grown up with and almost gloomier than the London ones she had become accustomed to and loved best. But it was still nice to have some flexibility with her wardrobe in the winter here just as she did in London. And to top it off, there would be no lake effect snow. And, at least right now, she could still sit outside on the Quantico campus with her lunch and a book or her laptop.

Today she decided on her laptop. Yesterday's encounter with Will Graham's ghost shadow had unnerved her enough that she still needed some distraction. She hadn't checked her Facebook since yesterday, instead vegging out to two episodes of _The Tudors_ on Netflix Instant and drinking half a bottle of Fish Eye pinot grigio before popping her Buspar and going to bed.

There were the normal updates from college friends, the pictures D.S. Miles posted of his children, the pictures from D.C. Reilly's latest medieval fair, her brother Roane's and his wife Haley's pictures from a weekend dinner, a link to an article her mother had written, and something her father had posted about the Wars of the Roses, and of course something from Edward Buchan's author profile.

But not what she had been looking for.

She checked D.I. Joe Chandler's profile, even though she felt a bit guilty about it.

He still showed as single.

She didn't know whether or not to be relieved or to feel sorry for him.

There had been some attraction there while she had been in London those six months getting to know Buchan's archive inside and out. It had been so easy to get along with him; while his brain didn't exactly work like hers, they both liked some kind of order and organization, some kind of sense of control over their surroundings. Caitlin had channeled that into a career and into maintaining that sense of balance that Mary Jane helped her with, but Joe's issues were so much bigger than hers.

He was OCD. He had the diagnosis, everything. It was just difficult for him to get the help he needed, to find a counselor he liked.

"Don't feel bad," she had told him when he had confided this to her. "I can talk to ghosts."

He had pushed his chicken curry around on the carry-out container, the corners of his lips beginning to turn up into a smile, yet his cheeks colored a bit, and he purposely averted his eyes from hers. "That's a good joke, Caitlin, but there's no need to change the subject."

"No. Really. Edward didn't tell you?" Buchan had been the first person she had confided this to. He had been absolutely excited when she had told him that Mary Jane Kelly was looking at the dusorganization of the archive in disgust.

"So you're not joking?"

"I'm being serious." She took a sip of tea after that last bite of curry. "Why do you think Jack Crawford of the FBI has me over here learning the ins and outs of Edward Buchan's archive—for funsies?"

"I should have known that Jack Crawford would think like that," Joe murmured. "He's killing two birds with one stone, isn't he? An archivist and a psychic detective."

"I just talk to ghosts, I can't read minds," Caitlin reminded Joe, throwing her wadded-up napkin at him.

"So how long have you been able to talk to ghosts?"

"Since I was ten."

"Was it something you were born with, or..."

"When I was ten I almost died."

She didn't want to elaborate further, and he didn't seem to want to ask. "It wasn't because of some creeper or something. It was just a horrible accident, but I'm still lucky to have survived and to be here talking to you now."

"Or maybe _I'm_ lucky that you're here talking to me now." His voice grew soft, and Caitlin felt her nerves grow sharp with anxiety.

The last thing she wanted was to start a fling with a colleague. Not just any colleague, but a very handsome, very sweet, very intelligent, very _available_ colleague at that.

He seemed to have sensed her dread; he started, reaching into his pocket for his Tiger Balm. "I don't mean it in the way you're thinking," he assured her, unscrewing the cap and dipping his fingers into the small pot. He rubbed the balm onto his temples, closing his eyes momentarily. "I haven't been able to have moments like this in about a year. Moments of clarity, I guess you could call them, from just talking to someone about mundane, everyday things. So I suppose I should thank you for choosing to stay late tonight."

"And choosing to take you up on buying me dinner?"

He laughed. "Yes, that, too."

And that was how it had started, as an easy friendship.

Two months before she had left for the States, it had turned into something more.

She hadn't wanted to leave London. She'd just wanted to tell the FBI to kiss her good-bye, that she was going to live with her gran and find something in England. Because she was in love.

She'd called Jack Crawford and her boss at the National Archive to tell her as much.

But then Jack had been like the Pied Piper, cajolng her into coming back for a higher amount of money than they had first bargained. And for her own office space instead of whatever they were going to give her.

And all the Nutella she could eat.

And _action._

Joe had told her to take it and run. It had seemed a better opportunity than working on a dingy old archive all day, waiting for him to come home every night.

There'd been no way they could do the long-distance thing, not with their jobs.

So reluctantly they parted ways.

And it was on the plane ride home that she'd realized she'd loved him.

She wondered if she ought to message him about Hannibal Lecter.

"Caitlin."

Jack Crawford had come out to the outside common area looking for her.

"Hi Jack," she said, finishing the last of her Lean Cuisine. Seeing his furrowed brow, she asked him, "What's up?"

"How do you feel about a road trip?" he asked her, watching as she threw away the last of her lunch and reached into her purse for some hand sanitizer.

"I'd like to know where we're going first."

"Baltimore State Hospital for the Clinically Insane. You wanted action, you're getting action."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own ___Hannibal, _but all original characters are mine.**

**This is a rewrite of something that I wasn't happy with. Hopefully this time it will turn out better. It will eventually cross over with ITV's ****___Whitechapel. _This fic begins with Episode 5 of Season 1 and will go from there.**

**I've "cast" Felicity Jones as Caitlin Greer. This was originally inspired by the Someone Save Will Graham meme. Caitlin is not a love interest for either Will or Hannibal. But it doesn't mean that Caitlin doesn't think Hannibal is gorgeous and intriguing when she first meets him.**

**Also, updates on this and other stories may be a little sporadic as I'm working on my own stuff right now. If anyone would like to know more, please let me know!**

**Dead Man's Bones**

**Chapter Three**

"This is the file on Abel Gideon." Jack handed her a legal-sized manila folder that was overflowing with papers. "And this is what I've gathered for you on the Chesapeake Ripper." He handed Caitlin skinnier manila folder from his place in the passenger seat. "Minus the pictures, of course."

"I've seen worse, Jack," Caitlin murmured, sipping at her ginger green tea and putting the portable plastic cup in the holder beside her.

"Will Graham said that, too, and right now he's barely holding on. Which is why I'm bringing in Dr. Hannibal Lecter if you have a moment."

"Does Dr. Hannibal Lecter know why I'm here?" Caitlin said, her head snapping up from the files.

"He knows you're here for the crime archive," Jack said resolutely, his eyes meeting hers meaningfully.

"Good. That's all he needs to know for now."

"Did you ever meet Dr. Lecter at all, Caitlin?"

"No, but my ex-boyfriend knew him. So did the London archivist, Edward Buchan."

"Dr. Lecter might come off as a little reserved, but he's very professional. And very observant."

"I'll keep my poker face on." Caitlin skimmed over the Gideon files. Dr. Abel Gideon had been a transplant surgeon and a very competent one at that. He had married his college sweetheart, but that marriage, which had given him two children who were now high-school age, had ended in divorce. He had left his first wife to be with his second wife, who had been what could only be described as a blond, tanorexic receptionist at the hospital. That was the wife who, along with her family, had been cut up and disembowelled at what must have been a rather eventful Thanksgiving dinner two years ago.

"But he didn't take anything," Caitlin murmured.

"Huh?" Jack turned in the passenger seat, his dark eyes meeting her hazel ones.

"The Chesapeake Ripper takes organs. Right here. Your notes. Abel Gideon had fun decorating his dining room with what he took from his wife and her family. Oh, and look, he added accessories to his wife's outfit! What a guy!" Caitlin took a sip of more tea to settle her stomach; nausea had set in already. She smiled wanly at Jack.

"They're bad, aren't they?" he asked her.

"Yeah, they are." She quickly closed the Gideon file. "Victorian crime photos and drawings are different. They're in black and white, and they were so long ago, so it seems like they're not real even though they _are,_ which is why it's so important to get a sense of the victims and of the time and place."

"And the Chesapeake Ripper?"

"I don't know. I'll see what I can get off of him." She bit her berry-stained lips and handed Jack the Chesapeake Ripper file. "But he took organs. Gideon didn't. Surely that means something. And in this latest one..." Caitlin shivered.

"We noticed that, too. No organs taken."

"The scenes are completely different. Gideon's reeks of _crime passionel._"

"Will Graham said the same thing."

"Jack the Ripper wasn't organized. Neither was Abel Gideon. But the Chesapeake Ripper is. She handed the files back to Jack. "So who's saying that Dr. Abel Gideon is the Chesapeake Ripper?"

"Tattlecrime. You ever hear of it?"

"Oh, that rag? Run by Freddie Lounds, ace reporter?" Caitlin snickered, careful to hold her ginger candy chew in between her back teeth. "I've seen her work and used it for some of the archive. She's a nasty little thing, isn't she?"

"Other people have said worse," Jack said. "Anyway, you get to meet her."

Caitlin groaned inwardly. "You set up a scenario?"

"The best scenario we could. I had to sneak you in as a temporary agent."

"Temporary agent having to do with what?"

"The archive. It's the best way to explain. If this is another Chesapeake Ripper murder, I want you here front and center to get what you can from it."

_I want you here front and center to get what you can from the victim's ghost, from the victim's eyes._

Will Graham could empathize with killers.

She could speak with victims' ghosts and see what happened to them _through their eyes. __Don't worry now, Caitlin,_ Mary Jane's voice was soothing. _You think I'd abandon you to those vultures?_

Caitlin glanced over at Mary Jane's apparition beside her with a smile. Indeed, the ghost had chosen a lovely look for today: a green silk dress with a gold flower pattern bordered with black, and black lacy gloves and a green hat pinned jauntily into her elegantly coiffed blonde hair. Yes, this was how Mary Jane had wanted to live during her lifetime, and now she was doing so after death.

And then Caitlin's smile faded.

The sad part was, she trusted a ghost to protect her more than she did Jack Crawford.

Something to talk to Alana about, she decided as they pulled into the driveway of the hospital.

* * *

She could hear the hisses and whispers of the ghosts that haunted the hospital and its patients, but Mary Jane barred their access to her. As did the amber pendant that was nestled in the hollow at the base of her throat.

The doctor treating Abel Gideon, the doctor who ran the hospital, reeked of Ralph Lauren Polo cologne and wore a badly tailored suit with a rather obnoxious tie. Arrogant complacency, Caitlin thought dismissively. An arrogant douche and nothing more. He apparaised her as one would appraise a piece of meat. Not for consumption, but fuckability.

Frederick Chilton was an asshole. A misogynistic asshole, at that.

Freddie Lounds was nice enough, though there was a coolness about her. She was a mercenary sort of woman, Caitlin supposed, one who would always land on her feet. There was a false kind of eagerness around her that Caitlin didn't like, a calculating sincerity in those green eyes. Caitlin wondered whether or not she was a bottle redhead.

Hannibal Lecter, on the other hand.

He made her forget to breathe.

_Easy now, Caitlin. Don't let another pretty face spirit away your judgment. He's not your Joe._

And Mary Jane was right.

Hannibal reminded her of Joe Chandler. But unlike Joe, there was a certain showiness about his suit, his natty tie, and the matching pocket square. His light brown hair was parted on the side and slicked neatly back. There was a hint of a smile when Jack introduced them, and when his hand closed around hers, she was struck by how strong his grip was. And he smelled so good.

But his eyes. Eyes were always windows to the soul.

There was nothing in them but curiosity. A detached sort of curiosity. Not the kind that was in Joe's eyes and on his face, not the earnestness and pride in the work he did.

They sat in the waiting area outside of Chilton's office while Chilton and Jack spoke behind a closed door and while Freddie was in with Abel Gideon.

"You're a Ripperologist," Dr. Lecter said suddenly.

"I'm sorry?" Caitlin had been on her Blackberry checking emails. She felt his cold stare on her as she put her phone away in her purse.

"I thought," Dr. Lecter said, the corners of his lips curving upwards into what could be called an archaic smile, "that we ought to occupy ourselves with some conversation while we waited. I recognized your name. You co-published a piece with Edward Buchan in one of the Ripperology magazines, dismissing painter Walter Sickert's involvement in the murders. I enjoyed it."

"Thanks," Caitlin said, her cheeks flushing. "You're into Ripperology?"

"As a psychiatrist with an interest in forensics, I dabble." He crossed one leg over another, in a fashion that would now be considered feminine but was such a throwback from a previous century that she wanted to swoon or reach for some nonexistent smelling salts. "But I've never written anything about the crimes, as ghastly as they were. My interests are in more modern crimes."

"How modern? Are we talking Manson family or Minnesota Shrike?"

"So you know of my involvement in the latter?"

"I've familiar with it, and of how your quick action saved an innocent girl's life. You're a man of iron, Dr. Lecter. I'm sure I would have freaked."

He inclined his head. "You're too kind, Ms. Greer."

"And you're good at taking compliments, Dr. Lecter."

"I'm touched, Ms. Greer." He folded his hands and brought them to rest under his chin. "Your father is Edmund Greer the medievalist, and your mother is Alison Reardon-Greer, the art historian?"

"You've read _their_ work, too?" Caitlin said, laughing.

"Just your mother's. She knows her Renaissance art."

"She does."

"But your accident."

_Motherfucker._ "Accidents happen, Dr. Lecter."

"Your brother Kevin died. You nearly did, too. Your brother Roane was at fault."

"Roane had his problems. He's fine, now, though." She swallowed, her throat dry.

"I'm sure he is," Dr. Lecter said softly. "But your preoccupation with death."

"We share in the same thing, don't we?" Caitlin riposted.

Dr. Lecter nodded. "So we do, Ms. Greer." His tone lightened. "Let's talk about other things. Have you met Will Graham?"

"Yes, I have. I'm looking forward to working with him." Caitlin kept that reply short and sweet. So Dr. Lecter was trying to get a feel of whom Will would be working with, but for what reason?

"Was he impressed with your archive as well?"

"Not at first, but he came around. Now he's looking forward to working with me, too."

"You must have charmed him."

"It's not me, but the resources themselves. Profilers need that kind of information to go off of when developing a profile on a new subject."

"So it was specifically for Will Graham, this archive?"

"You'd have to ask Jack Crawford that question, Dr. Lecter. _But_ I hear you have a rather impressive library yourself. Alana Bloom says that you might be able to help me with the book I'm writing on the Whitechapel murders."

"I'd like to be of help to you, Ms. Greer." He leaned back in his chair, still sitting straight. "Perhaps you could come to my home for dinner one evening."

"Or lunch," Caitlin said. When his brow furrowed and a frown marred his sculptured features, she added quickly, "Libraries are my favorite places to spend weekend mornings and afternoons. You can get so much more done during the day and then have the rest of the night for fun. But that's just me. We can do dinner if you want, though. It'll be fun." She flashed him a smile, then took out her phone once more.

"You'll like Dr. Lecter's dinners, Caitlin," Jack Crawford said suddenly, exiting Chilton's office. "I can vouch for his superior culinary skills. And for the quality of his wine cellar."

She had to admit that Jack had her at wine. "Well, we'll have to do dinner sooner than later, won't we, Dr. Lecter?"

He smiled in spite of himself. "And lunch," he said, "while I offer you full access to my library."

A grin spread across her face as she stood up. "You mean it?" she said disbelievingly. "You'd allow me full access to your library?"

"Provided that I'm home, of course, Ms. Greer. It would be extremely discourteous of me to leave you alone to do as you pleased while I went about whatever business I might have."

Caitlin wanted to jump up and down and clap her hands in delight as she would so often do when something research-related excited her, but she remained as professional as she could under the circumstances. "Thank you so much!" she exclaimed. "You have no idea of how much I appreciate that!"

"I'm sure I have more of an idea than you think," Dr. Lecter said, smiling formally as Jack led her down the corridor to the room where the night nurse had been murdered.

* * *

"You getting anything?"

Caitlin sighed. "She's right here, Jack. It's going to take a minute, Mary Jane is trying to get her to calm down. She doesn't even know she's dead, Jack."

She heard the click of the heels of Jack's shoes against the tile floor. "You want me to leave?"

"No!" she exclaimed, whirling to face him. He had stopped in his tracks.

"You want me to stay, then?"

"Please." She inhaled shakily, composing herself. "Please. I just want someone here. You're the best one right now. Just stay, and let me do what needs to be done."

"I can do that." Jack came closer to her, taking a place at one of the desks that served as a nurse's station. "You'll tell me what you get?"

"Of course I will, Jack," she promised.

* * *

_This is what he did._

_I still can't see. Why can't I see?_

The worst was the pain behind Caitlin's eyes, the sudden blackness. She swayed, and it was Jack who caught her. "I got you, Caitlin. It's okay. Keep going."

Crawling away, blood dripping down her face like hot, coppery tears. And Gideon pulled her back.

He shushed her gently, placing his hand over her mouth and nose.

"He suffocated her." Caitlin felt her vision return, but tears blurred everything. "He suffocated her before doing all

_that_. I..." She felt her gorge rise.

"You gonna be sick?"

She nodded.

"Come on, I'll take you to the bathroom."

* * *

Jack Crawford's little archivist emerged from the surgery with a pale face, hurrying to the bathroom with the hem of her skirt fluttering about her knees.

Hannibal Lecter did not find it particularly disconcerting. Just a little undignified on the young woman's part. Rather insignificant, just as she was.

Still, it had been amusing to see her eyes light up when he mentioned that he would allow her access to his library and that he wanted to see what she was writing. Perhaps she would be able to offer some insight on the investigation of the two other grisly torso murders that had been written off as cold cases in London.

He had told DI Chandler that he believed were copycats, no more and no less.

"But there are organs missing," Chandler had said, tapping his finger on his desk as he regarded the photographs with the intensity of a man trying to solve a complicated jigsaw puzzle. "Why would there be organs missing, Dr. Lecter, if these were exact copycats?"

"Maybe it's someone trying to make you recall the humiliation of never being able to capture your Jack the Ripper copycat," Hannibal had offered casually. "Wasn't a kidney sent to DI Miles, just as one was sent to George Lusk during the autumn of terror?"

Chandler had turned to glance at him with an incredulous look on his face. "So you think this is someone who is looking to humiliate DI Miles and myself...even Edward Buchan?"

"I'm only saying that it's very possible that someone is trying to humiliate you," Hannibal had replied. "But you're an intrepid investigator, DI Chandler. You'll find him, I'm sure."

He stood up as the woman emerged from the bathroom. She had just brushed her teeth—he could smell the toothpaste on her from a mile away—and had just touched up her makeup. "You're all right, Ms. Greer?"

She smiled wanly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "Yes, thanks for asking." She ducked her head so that she didn't have to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm just a little embarrrassed."

"These things occur, Ms. Greer."

"Thanks for being understanding," she said, lifting her face so that she could address him directly. Jack Crawford called her name, and she turned and hurried down the corridor after him.

Yes, she might be insignificant, Hannibal Lecter thought as he watched her leave, but she could still prove valuable. He wouldn't discount her—not just yet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Hannibal, **_**but all original characters are mine. This will originally cross over with ITV's **_**Whitechapel. **_**Thanks for all of the follows, favorites, and reviews! They are greatly appreciated! And I should make a playlist for Caitlin herself, shouldn't I?**

**Dead Man's Bones**

**Chapter Four**

"So a questionnaire? You want me to have him fill out a questionnaire?" Caitlin said, looking down at the sheets of paper that Jack had just given her.

"He's not going to fill them out. He's going to answer them verbally, and you're going to record his answers." Jack held up the tiny digital recorder, placing it in Caitlin's other hand.

"For what purpose?"

"For the archive. We're killing a few birds with one stone here, and it was the only way I could get you in here under Chilton's nose." Jack glanced over his shoulder to see Freddie Lounds approaching, then lowered his voice. "While you're in there with him, see if you can find anything."

"You want me to open myself up to whatever has followed the inmates to this hospital?" Caitlin demanded in a whisper. "Jack, I can't do that…"

"I'm only asking you to open yourself up to _him_ and whatever might be following him around. However you do it. If it gets to be too much for you, end the conversation and have the guard walk you back here."

"Sometimes I think you're asking too much, Jack," Caitlin said soberly. "Is there a specific reason for all of this?"

"Caitlin, if you'd been around over a hundred years ago in London, the investigators working on the Ripper case would have had you wandering the streets of Whitechapel with them until they got him. Luckily, this is a different Ripper case, and I'm not as demanding."

"You sure about that, Jack?" Caitlin turned on her heel and passed Freddie Lounds on her way out of the room. Freddie smiled at Caitlin and stopped, causing Caitlin to turn around and glance at her perplexedly.

"Your archive would be interesting to see," Freddie said. "Could I come by and take a look at it and do a retrospective of old unsolved cases? The Cleveland Torso Murders, maybe, or the Axman of New Orleans? I could run a series and fit the Chesapeake Ripper case into it. I'd even let _you_ give your opinions on the cases as an amateur crime historian…" Freddie's eyes grew large with what she must be envisioning in her mind, and Caitlin wondered whether or not this was all some elaborate ruse to try and get further into Will Graham's mind and what made him tick.

"The archive isn't finished yet," Caitlin told her dismissively. "Once it's done, I'll let you know." She flashed a quick smile at Freddie, then turned and made her way down the corridor.

She was given a temporary badge identifying her as a visitor, and the orderly buzzed her in. "Keep to the right," he advised. "See that chair? That's where his cell is."

"Thanks," Caitlin replied, turning to get a look at the orderly's badge. "Barney."

She kept to the right as Barney had instructed. Mary Jane walked in front of her the entire time, just as it had been when they had first come into the hospital, to keep the other ghosts at bay.

She wished that Mary Jane were visible to keep the other prisoners from leering at her and trying to get her attention.

She came to Abel Gideon's cell soon enough. She sat down in the chair that the orderly had indicated. Gideon, who had been flipping through a medical journal, looked up as she situated herself.

"Two female visitors in one day," he remarked, his dark, perfectly waxed eyebrows waggling. "Chilton must be trying to get me to let my guard down, huh?"

Caitlin shrugged. "I can't say. I'm not here on Dr. Chilton's behalf."

"Then who are you here for? No—let me guess! The FBI?" Gideon shifted in his seat so that he could get a better look at her. "What exactly do you _do_? You don't look like a full-time agent."

Caitlin cleared her throat, sweeping a stray lock of hair out of her face. "That's because I'm not," she said coolly, thankful that Mary Jane was close by. She turned on the digital recorder.  
_Don't open yourself up too much, Caitlin. There's an entire crowd of them gathering and more on their way._ Mary Jane's lips thinned determinedly.

"Shit," Caitlin muttered, and Gideon's brow crumpled.

"So you're not an agent, because you're not shit?"

_"No! _I just realized I forgot something, that's all," Caitlin replied. "With regards to what I do, I'm an archivist."

Gideon seemed amused. "An _archivist_. The FBI sent an archivist to speak with me. First psychiatrists and profilers, and now an archivist!" He folded his arms across his chest. "So tell me, what exactly do you archive?"

"I'm working on a crime archive for the BAU, similar to ones that Scotland Yard and the police in London both use," Caitlin explained. "Your case came up, and I thought it would be interesting to get your perspective on what happened. You know, since you're pretty close and all."

"You mean, since I'm the Chesapeake Ripper and all."

"You honestly believe that?" She opened herself up just a little bit, just so that any spirits surrounding Gideon would be able to feel her energy and see her light.

"Why are you asking me whether or not I believe it when I know it's true?"

"I'm just asking. But why don't we focus on the reason why you're here first?" Caitlin suggested. "I have a few questions to ask you, and if you could answer them, it would help immensely with the archive…"

"Do I have my own file?" he asked her, tilting his head.

"Of course you do," she said. "And if it turns out you're the Chesapeake Ripper, you'll have two! Isn't that great?"

"I'm not a child, Miss…"

"Ms. Greer."

"Ms. Greer, as I said, I'm not a child. So don't talk to me like one."

"I'm not talking to you like you're a child. You seem to be so sure that you're the Chesapeake Ripper and so proud of your work that I'll let you have two files. Not every killer gets two files in the crime archive, Dr. Gideon. But first, let's focus on the one we know about."

"You want to know about what was going through my head when I killed my wife and her family?" Dr. Gideon leaned forward, as though he reveled in telling this story.

"Well, if you can tell me what happened, in your own words, as well as what was going through your head, that would be great," Caitlin said.

"Did you study to be a teacher at one point, Ms. Greer?"

"No, but I was a T.A. in grad school."

"I can see you, dealing with all those little rookie undergrads. What did they know?"

"Quite a lot, actually. Now if you'll give me your account of the Thanksgiving day you killed your wife and her family?"

As Gideon gave her the account of what had occurred on that fateful day four years ago, Caitlin opened herself up even more, letting her internal light shine even more brightly. Mary Jane sucked in her breath with a hiss.

_Are you mad, you stupid girl? You'll call them all to you…_

With Gideon there was _nothing._

But the other spirits.

The woman who had been impaled on a stag's head was the most visible out of all of them.

_Help me. Can you help me? He did _this _to me. All I did was blow cigarette smoke in his face because he seemed like such a tight ass…_

Mary Jane stepped in front of the woman. _You can't talk to her. Don't let her in, do you hear me, Caitlin? _Don't let her in! _Let go _now!

Caitlin let go.

The pages of the questionnaire had fluttered to the floor.

Gideon was staring at her.

"So you got all of that?" he said in a bored tone.

Caitlin nodded, rising and bending to pick up the sheets of paper that littered the floor around her.

"What do you think?"

"What am I supposed to think?" she said. "You're another guy who killed your wife because you got tired of her. You are _not _the Chesapeake Ripper, and whoever has been telling you that you are is full of shit."

His eyes widened. "You say that I'm not? And _how_ do you know?"

Caitlin eyed him levelly. "Little birds," she said. "Little birds. Tweet, tweet." And she turned on her heel and made her way down the corridor and out of the wing.

* * *

"He's not your Ripper." Caitlin tossed the questionnaire and the recorder at Jack.

"How do you know?"

"I opened myself up, Jack. Too much. I got nothing from him. But I got something from someone else. Mary Jane had to step in and cur her off." Caitlin began to pace the width of the tiny office Jack had been given for his visit, wringing her hands. "Do you know what I got? A victim from a completely unrelated murder, that's what!"

"So it's like Will thought. Abel Gideon isn't our Ripper." Jack's voice grew soft with resignation, and he folded up the questionnaire and put it in his suit pocket. "I'll get you Gideon's recording so you can transcribe it and put it in the archive."

"You know Freddie Lounds wants access to the archive once it's done," Caitlin mentioned, shivering, reaching for her long cardigan hung on a chair and shrugging it on. "The archive is for Will."

"She's written about Will."

"Nasty things about Will."

"You like Will Graham, Caitin?"

"Enough to work with him, yes. I'm not going to be his BFF."

"No one said you had to be." Jack rubbed his eyes. "But it's good you like him, Caitlin. He has good things to say about you, too. Professionally."

Professionally. Thank God.

"Do you want to talk to Dr. Lecter about what you learned?"

Caitlin shook her head. "I don't think so. I'm used to Alana."

Jack nodded. "Okay. Then we're good."

* * *

"Miriam Lass."

"So this was all about Miriam Lass?" Caitlin gave Jack a mug of Twinings Lady Grey tea. He sat down in the chair across from hers and spread the file on Miriam Lass out on her desk.

"I think the Ripper got her. And I was the one who sent her into the devil's den."

"Two years ago, almost," Caitlin murmured. She ran her fingers over the photo of Miriam.

Nothing.

"I've been getting calls." He took out his Smartphone and played the message on speaker.

_Jack. Jack. I don't want to die. Not like this._

"From the Ripper?"

"He got into my house, Caitlin. He lay on Bella's pillow, put some of Miriam's hair on it."

"For fuck's sake."

Jack sipped his tea. "Can you get anything?"

She shook her head. "Nothing."

"What if I brought you something belonging to her?"

"Like what?"

"I have a pen she used. Would that work?"

"Jack, I can't do psychometry."

Jack groaned, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I know who can, though. I'll need to go to New York for whatever weekend you want me to do it."

"You know someone?"

Caitlin blinked. "Lily Dale, Jack. There's a psychometrist there, Simone Lessing. If you want me to take the pen there I can do it."

He sat back in his chair, squaring his shoulders. "Let me think about it. You mind if I come with you?"

"I'd love the company. If Bella approves."

"Bella knows it would only be professional."

Caitlin grinned and clinked her mug against Jack's. "Then think about it and we'll set a date."

* * *

_I can't believe you let her in. I told you not to, Caitlin. I told you I would monitor contact. But you had to shine for them like a beacon, and they came. Why do you do things like that, Caitlin?__  
_

"I did it for Jack Crawford," Caitlin said. "You know why."

_But still…_

"But still nothing," Caitlin replied. "I'm going to bed. Good night."

Mary Jane huffed, disappearing through the wall to the living room. Caitlin buried her face into her pillow and sighed.

Then came the text from Joe.

_So much has been happening. So busy. But I miss you._

Oh, Joe!

_I miss you, too,_ she texted back. _I wish I were in London. I would love to wait up for you._

_I wish you were here, too._

Why did he have to make it so difficult?! And why did she have to fall for it?

_Can you afford a flight here? I miss you so much._

_Of course I can, Caitlin. But do you want me to come?_

_You know I do._

_Let's Skype to be sure. Do you want to Skype?_

_Yeah, let's Skype!_

_You have no idea how much that means to me._

_I think I do._

A pause.

_If I come to the U.S., I'll want to take you back to England with me._

J_oe, Jack Crawford needs me right now._

_Then I shouldn't come, should I?_

_You can come, but you'll be going back to England alone._

_I'll settle for that. Because I know you like your job and you want to see things through with Jack. But I love you, Caitlin. Even after all this time. Remember that._

She felt tears prick her eyes, and she sighed. _Of course, Joe. Always. And I love you, too._


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Hannibal, **_**but all original characters are mine. This starts out from Episode 1.5 of **_**Hannibal**_** and will eventually cross over with ITV's **_**Whitechapel. **_**As always, thanks for the follows, favorites, and reviews!**

And as I promised, Caitlin's playlist:

_The Water, _Hurts

_I Know Places, _Lykke Li

_London, _Vanessa Carlton

_Need, _Hana Pestle

_Walking with a Ghost, _Tegan and Sarah

_Play On, _Paloma Faith

_Losing Sleep, _Charlotte Sometimes

_Big Empty, _Stone Temple Pilots

_Butterflies and Hurricanes, _Muse

_Sunday Morning Call,_ Oasis

_Breath of Life, _Florence + the Machine

_The Beauty of the Dark, _Mads Langer

_Safe and Sound, _Capital Cities

_Charlie Brown, _Coldplay

**Dead Man's Bones**

**Chapter Five**

"So what'd you find out?" Will asked Caitlin when she met him in the lecture room after one of his classes.

"He's not the Chesapeake Ripper, Gideon, I mean. It's someone else. And apparently someone broke into Jack's house?"

"He thinks it was the real Ripper. Some of Miriam Lass's hairs were placed on Bella's pillow." Will focused on getting everything set for his next lecture. He deliberately turned the laptop toward himself to spare Caitlin any gory pictures from today's lesson.

"That is beyond fucked up."

"Isn't it?" Will straightened, his attention turning to Caitlin. "Come down to forensics and I'll show you everything. Maybe you could get something?"

"Like I told Jack, I can't do psychometry."

"Well, whatever it is you do. The forensics team is okay with me. They'll be okay with you."

"Are _you_ okay with me, with what I can do?" She jutted out a hip and placed her hand on it, waiting expectantly for his reply.

"If you're okay with what I can do, and how I can't look you in the eye."

"If that's your thing, Will, I won't ask. I tend to overcaffeinate, so."

"Jack says sometimes the ghosts make you sick to your stomach. You like your ginger chews and ginger ale. If I keep those in supply for you, can we be friends?"

"I'll keep you supplied in tea."

Will seemed to relax, and she thought she saw him smile. "Fair enough. We can be friends."

"Speaking of friends, I met Hannibal Lecter."

"He's not my friend, Caitlin. He's my psychiatrist. Like you talk to Alana if you need to."

"He's interesting."

"Yeah, he is. I bet he found _you_ interesting."

Caitlin sucked in a breath. "He seemed very interested in me. He asks a lot of questions, but he goes about it in a way that doesn't seem invasive. I didn't tell him everything about why I'm here, Will. I'd appreciate it if you didn't, either."

"I'll leave it up to you to tell him." Will came over to the desk, leaning over it to check his lecture notes.

"He wants to help me with the book I'm writing about the Whitechapel murders," Caitlin told Will.

Will smiled in spite of himself. "He knows his stuff, Caitlin. He can only help you."

"You trust him, Will?"

"Of course I do."

"Your opinion means a lot, then. I'll give him a chance."

* * *

Caitlin left the lecture hall just as the students began to file in. She saw Alana round the corner. Alana's face brightened when she saw Caitlin and she quickened her pace toward the other woman.

"Jack Crawford just got a call from Dr. Chilton," Alana told Caitlin. "Dr. Gideon wants to see you again. He demanded to, through his lawyer. So we're going to Baltimore this afternoon to see him, and afterward, Dr. Lecter is going to have us over for dinner. He wants to show you his library and see what you have so far."

"There's really not a lot to show him," Caitlin objected.

"I'm sure there's a lot. Let him take a look and judge for himself," Alana urged, following Caitlin down to the archive.

"Do you know why Gideon wants to see me?" Caitlin persisted, unlocking the door to the archive.

"I'm not sure why. Dr. Chilton called me with the request from Dr. Gideon's lawyer. Let me handle Dr. Chilton."

"Can someone else handle Dr. Chilton?" Caitlin said as she slipped her laptop into her messenger bag and picked up her purse.

"What do you mean by someone else?" Alana asked, tilting her head in curiosity.

"I mean someone there with authority to back you up. Like Will or Jack or even Dr. Lecter. Dr. Chilton is a misogynistic prick who's only out to make a name for himself."

"There's you."

Caitlin snorted. "I'm just an archivist. A very _fuckable_ archivist. Just like you're a very _fuckable_ psychiatrist."

Alana grimaced, passing her hand over the skirt of her wrap dress. "Caitlin."

"What? It's true."

"I _have_ authority, Caitlin."

"Listen to how Dr. Chilton talks to you and that will give you an idea of what he thinks of your authority."

"Gideon's lawyer will be there. Chilton is going to have a lot to explain," Alana said sharply as they walked out to her car. Caitlin gritted her teeth as she snapped her seatbelt on. Alana wouldn't admit it, but someone who was supposed to be her colleague and her equal didn't take her seriously because she was missing a certain appendage. And it rankled with her.

Abel Gideon's lawyer, Gene Drescher, was a middle-aged man with graying hair, rimless glasses, and a guarded air. Or at least, he was guarded and formal toward Dr. Chilton, but once Alana entered the conference room, he stood up, shook her head, and asked her how she was doing with genuine camaraderie. Alana assured Gene that she was doing quite well. She introduced Caitlin as her colleague from the FBI.

"And what is it you do, Ms. Greer?" Gene asked her once they had sat down at the table.

Caitlin glanced at Dr. Chilton, who fiddled with his pen, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "I'm an archivist," she told Gene. "I work for the FBI's behavioral unit. I'm putting together a murder archive for our profilers…"

"So you have no formal training in the fields of forensics, psychology, and psychiatry?"

"None. My bachelor's degree was in English and liberal arts with a library science concentration, double major. In grad school I concentrated on special collections."

"But you co-wrote an article with your former mentor, Edward Buchan, on several subjects in what could be called crime history, including a very convincing article last year absolving Walter Sickert of the Whitechapel murders?"

"That was in response to author Monica Lindstrom's claim that she had DNA evidence proving he was Jack the Ripper. All she did prove was that he wrote a letter or two for a laugh."

She heard Mary Jane let out a snort of derisive laughter. Well, Mary Jane still thought it was funny, didn't she?

Gene inclined his head, an amused smile playing on his lips. "So you've seen the pictures from the crime scene and you've looked over the Chesapeake Ripper files. What do you, as a sort of amateur crime historian, think about Dr. Chilton's hypothesis?"

Alana cleared her throat, glancing at Caitlin. Caitlin inhaled deeply before she answered the question.

"I agree with my superior, Jack Crawford. The wounds in the case of the _Chesapeake_ Ripper were inflicted while the victims were still alive. Gideon's wounds were inflicted after the victims were dead."

"You told my client about your suspicions?"

"Of course I did."

"You said 'little birds' told you."

_Little birds. Tweet, tweet._

"I was trying to be facetious about the whole thing. Because if _I_ could figure it out, then shouldn't a professional like Dr. Chilton be able to figure it out?" Caitlin eyed Chilton coolly.

Chilton's lips thinned and a frown marred his face. Gene Drescher glanced down at his notes, straightening in his seat with a new air of confidence. "That will be all, Ms. Greer. Thank you for your time."

As she and Alana rose to leave, Caitlin couldn't help but glance at Chilton again. And he looked furious.

* * *

"My attorney is filing a lawsuit on my behalf," Gideon told Caitlin in a bored voice. "I asked him to have you come here so you'd know."

"So I'd know what?" She watched as Gideon rose from his cot and came close to the glass barrier.

"So you'd know that you got me thinking about whether or not I _was_ the Chesapeake Ripper. Or if Chilton was fucking with my head. And he _was_ fucking with my head."

"That's awful," was all Caitlin could say. Mary Jane rolled her eyes.

_There isn't much to fuck with because his head is already fucked._

Caitlin shot a glare over at Mary Jane, who rolled her eyes.

"What are you looking at?" Gideon asked her curiously, and Caitlin returned her attention to him.

"Nothing," she said.

"You looked as though you were listening to something…or someone. Are you wearing a wire?"

"No." Caitlin stood up, trying to maintain her veneer of calm. "I just remembered something, that's all."

"Sure." Gideon sat down on his cot again. "Leaving so soon, Ms. Greer?"

"Unfortunately, I have to," Caitlin said. "Thank you for your time."

A strange sort of smile broke out across Gideon's face. "No, Ms. Greer," he said. "Thank _you_ for _your_ time."

* * *

Hannibal Lecter's house was gorgeous, his study where he saw his patients and kept pertinent texts even more so.

"So it's just you?" Caitlin said as he ushered her and Alana into the room that served as the library for his other books.

"It's just me," he replied, going to her side as she glanced over the titles of his history books. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Greer."

"I'm not disappointed. Just surprised."

She heard Alana laugh. "You're not the only one who's surprised, Caitlin. I've been surprised for years that Hannibal has remained unattached."

"And _you_, Ms. Greer? Are you unattached, like Dr. Bloom and myself?" Hannibal asked her as he chose a title from the bookshelf.

"Unfortunately, I am. I just got out of a relationship with someone I met in London. I'm still breaking my heart over it, actually," she said when she saw how he looked up at her when she mentioned London.

"You worked with the London police, didn't you?" Hannibal asked as he stepped away from the bookshelf.

"Yes, in Whitechapel itself. There's so much history there. I can't begin to describe how amazing it is to read primary sources and then track down the locations." She sipped her wine and turned to face him.

"Perhaps you would like this title?" he suggested, handing her the book. "A criminal history of Baltimore. A friend of mine who is involved with the historical society wrote it. You might find it fascinating."

Caitlin put down the glass and opened the paperback book, flipping through the pages. "I think I _will_ find it fascinating," she said. "Thank you." She smiled at him, and he smiled back at her, the motion rounding out his cheekbones. There was a glint of something in his eyes—amusement, camaraderie, what?

"And now enough talk about books," he said to her and Alana. "I've cooked you a very fine dinner, Ms. Greer. I hope you'll be impressed."

"And I hope it's as fine as you say it is," Caitlin riposted. "And you can call me Caitlin."

He chuckled as he gestured for her to precede him. "And you may call me Hannibal."

Caitlin heard Mary Jane guffaw at this. _Hannibal. Ask him how many elephants survived crossing the Alps._

"Shhh!" Caitlin hissed. Alana turned to look at her, an expression of concern on her face.

"Caitlin, is everything okay?" Alana said, putting down her pilsner glass of beer. Hannibal approached too, frowning in curiosity.

Caitlin recovered herself quickly. "I'm sorry. I just remembered something I forgot to do, and I almost swore, but I didn't want to do it in front of you, Hannibal. Because I didn't want to be rude."

Hannibal inclined his head, his brown eyes not leaving her. "Of course you didn't," he said evenly. "How very courteous of you to think of that."

"Thanks," Caitlin said hesitantly, and she followed Alana into the dining room, and she was certain Hannibal Lecter was watching her every move.

* * *

He knew she was lying.

He replayed the scene in the library again in his mind as Caitlin nattered on about the Thorne miniature rooms in Chicago's art museum.

_Shhh._

She had been ready to leave the room, but she had glanced back toward the shelves as she had said it.

As though she had been speaking to someone.

She had been to the hospital again to see Abel Gideon, at his request, of course. The only question was _why_. Caitlin Greer was not as striking as Alana Bloom, in Hannibal's estimation. She was pretty in a mousy kind of way, what the British would call plain, but then men's tastes were known to change. He would have to ask Chilton for any footage or recordings he had of their interviews.

Caitlin Greer was hiding something.

And he would find out what it was.


End file.
